


A start

by ash_carpenter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:40:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ash_carpenter/pseuds/ash_carpenter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam thinks it's time to make a start on forgiving Dean - and the bunker's big ass table is the place to do it.</p>
<p>Shameless smut, with a side of angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A start

** A start **

 

Sam hasn’t put out in weeks.

He’s been angry, yes, and that’s part of it. But it’s also been an intentionally cruel punishment for Dean. Not the withholding of sex itself – because, Jesus, they’re men in their thirties, brothers, and they really have bigger problems than that – but what that means for Dean. 

Dean’s rooted in physicality in a way that Sam’s not. He can’t say sorry or I was wrong or I love you; he’s not built like that. Way before they were old enough to tread their sordid path, Dean used to hug Sam or feel his forehead or slide a hand through his hair rather than soothing him with words. When he couldn’t get close to a girl because he could never tell her the truth about his life, he learned to snatch moments of intimacy, comfort and security from sex.

Once he realised that he could use that same form of connection with the person he loved most? He never turned back. Sam honestly thinks it never even occurred to Dean to turn down his fifteen year-old brother’s clumsy advances and let him grow out of his crush. 

A decade and a half later, fucked beyond all repair or salvation, Dean can’t even begin to really apologise or make amends without using his body. So Sam has been deliberately making it clear that any type of advance is unwelcome, forcing Dean to keep his distance. He hasn’t been ready.

Sam’s probably not ready now, either. He hasn’t forgiven Dean for making his choices for him, even though he knows all too well how his brother rationalised it to himself. But he can’t stand another minute of Dean slinking around like a kicked puppy, and he thinks it’s time he at least tried to let Dean make it up to him. It won’t happen fast, and his persistent fury will probably make him unnecessarily harsh, but it’ll be a start. 

Because Sam isn’t like Dean. Not at all. He has no idea how or why it happened – and since he lost his virginity to his own brother in a Denny’s parking lot, it’s probably best not to travel down that path – but he dissociates sex and emotion completely. He could have fucked Dean the same day he found out about the joy-riding angel, and got off just as hard as ever. But he would have pushed Dean away after, still hurt and angry, disgusted with them both, and it would have done more harm than good.

He knows Dean hasn’t been with anyone else, because he’s actually pretty damned good at self-flagellation when he sets his mind to it. Probably hasn’t been jerking off much either, because Sam can tell from the furtive, hungry little glances that his big brother’s feeling a bit desperate. 

“Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?” asks Dean, looking up sharply from the laptop. He seems guilty, maybe thinking he’s been caught out with his needy looks or that Sam’s somehow guessed he’s toying with the idea of surfing for porn.

“Come over here.”

Sam pushes back from the table, his legs spread wide as he settles back in his chair, eyes sliding over Dean’s body. There’s absolutely no mistaking his intentions, and Dean just studies him for a long moment before rising to his feet and skirting around the table. He stands in front of Sam slightly awkwardly, almost in the vee of his legs. 

Sam reaches out and closes his big palm over Dean’s crotch, drawing a shocked gasp. Dean’s already half-hard and rapidly fills out the rest of the way under Sam’s hand, cock tenting the loose denim and nudging eagerly into Sam’s hold. 

“You want it pretty bad, huh?” says Sam, staring up at Dean’s face, searching. He isn’t being mean or humiliating, not exactly, but he still likes it when Dean blushes and shields his eyes with his lashes. “Tell me what you’ll do to get it.”

If Dean didn’t have something to be sorry for, he wouldn’t put up with Sam’s shit. But this is his own special brand of atonement, so he rasps, “Anything you want.” 

“Good. You can start by taking your clothes off. All of them.”

Dean obeys, shucking everything into an untidy pile beside his feet. He pauses just briefly before shoving his underwear down, even though Sam already knows how hard and needy he is. It leaves him exposed in a variety of ways, stripped raw and vulnerable, and Sam just regards him silently for a while. Dean shifts from foot to foot, but he lets Sam look and doesn’t say a word. 

Dean’s beautiful, even with the battle scars and the lines etching more deeply into his face every day. This isn’t new information: Dean’s been stupidly attractive since he hit puberty, and it’s something coded deep, as familiar and inevitable to Sam as his bow legs or love of pie. Sometimes it’s incredibly useful, sometimes it’s a royal pain in the ass, but it’s always just a fact. Sam doesn’t fuck Dean because he’s gorgeous, although he won’t deny that it’s a nice bonus. It didn’t even start out that way: at fifteen, it was the hero worship that made him want his brother, not Dean’s looks. For years, it’s really been nothing more to Sam than a fucked up habit; it helps him blow off steam, it’s easier than getting it anywhere else, and it affords Dean a way to connect. Sam would never say it, but he knows the truth: Dean _needs_ this. Sam? He just likes it. 

Eventually, Sam reaches out and skims his fingers through the air just a bare whisper away from Dean’s shaft, pads so close to the over-sensitised skin that it’s like a ghost’s touch. Dean makes a mewling sound and only just restrains himself from bucking forward and pushing into Sam’s hand. 

“Get on the table.” 

When Dean perches on the edge, Sam shakes his head. “No, all the way on. What’s the point in having such a big, solid centrepiece of a table if you can’t spread something pretty out on top?”

Normally, Dean would be grumbling about being referred to as pretty, but this time he just scoots his ass further onto the sturdy wood and then lies back. 

“Spread your legs for me. I wanna see you all laid out.”

Dean does, splaying his right leg out to the side and cocking his left knee. His balls are full and heavy, and Sam thinks he was right that Dean’s been neglecting himself. He glimpses the secret furl of Dean’s ass and feels a dirty, low punch of lust: he wants to be inside so fucking badly. But Dean hasn’t earned that yet, and Sam won’t mislead him into thinking that all is forgiven by leaping straight to full sex. 

“Jerk yourself off. And tell me what you’re thinking about while you do.”

Dean nods and reaches down, stifling a gasp as he wraps his hand around his aching cock. Sam steps right up to the table and leans forward, bracing his hands on either side of Dean. He’s close, letting Dean feel the heat of his body, but he’s not touching him anywhere. He guesses he’s looming, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, he’s barely managing to stop himself from arching up, trying to get closer.

Dean starts moving his hand and he curses colourfully when Sam spits on his dick, easing the way. 

“Jesus... Do you remember that night in Oakland?”

Sam knows what Dean’s talking about and he smiles. They don’t often indulge in frivolous role-play – not when it’s such a big part of their actual jobs – but it had been spontaneous, and inspired by the hunt itself, which had involved disappearing rent-boys. “The hooker and the rough john?”

“Yeah,” breathes Dean, squeezing himself. “You smacked me around and shoved me on the floor to fuck, saying I wasn’t worth anything better. You held me down and wrapped your hand around my throat. You remember that, Sammy? I could hardly breathe, but I was so fuckin’ hot for it. Then you spat on me. On my face and in my mouth. I lost it right there, came so damned hard. Fuck...”

Sam watches Dean bite his lip and get his other hand on himself, tugging on his balls a little.

“You still think about that, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s in the spank bank for sure,” agrees Dean. 

“What else? What else do you think about to get off?”

“When you use the weapons,” Dean answers without hesitation. “When you fuck me with a knife to my throat.” He groans, cock dribbling out pre-come. 

“Would you still like it if I used a gun?”

“Shit! Yes, Sam. Fuck, yes,” he murmurs, actually pushing off the table a little and fucking up into his fist. 

Sam knows that Dean’s incestuous ‘spank bank’ is at least half – and probably more – populated by memories of _him_ topping, of times when he nailed his little brother and showed him who was boss. But Dean’s not dumb and he knows that right now he has to put himself in the weaker position, so he’s focussing on when he got reamed and loved it. Sam appreciates the effort, even though it’s glass-transparent.

“Put your fingers inside yourself, Dean.”

Dean scrambles to do as he’s told, sucking hard at his fingers and wrapping his tongue around them, wet and dirty. Then he shifts, spreading wider to give Sam a good view, and shoves two fingers straight inside. He grunts and starts fucking them in and out, too turned on now to feel ashamed at how wanton he looks. 

Sam hasn’t touched himself the whole time, but he can feel his dick leaking out a steady stream of pre-come into his boxers; they’re sticking to his skin and there’s a wet patch forming on his pants. 

He leans down over Dean, body mere inches away and his shirt brushing over Dean’s tingling skin. Dean mewls and tries to press against him, but Sam maintains the distance, bringing his mouth close to his brother’s parted, panting lips. 

“I’m going to tie you face-down and use you. I’ll leave you strapped to the bed all day, and come in and fuck you when I feel like it. Like you’re a doll or something. I won’t help you get off, because only my pleasure will matter; if you want to come, you’ll have to hump the bed.”

“Jesus Christ, Sam,” Dean grits out, pushing his fingers harder into his ass and stripping his dick. Sam can tell that he’s right on the edge. 

“Don’t come yet.”

“ _Sam_.”

“You heard me.” Sam finally presses his hand to his own heavy cock, squeezing and closing his eyes against the heady rush of lust before popping his button fly open. Watching the way that Dean squirms, trying to hold off his orgasm, Sam pulls his dick free and begins to jack it with long, tight strokes.

“Let me touch you,” begs Dean, his hand leaving his own shaft to reach for Sam’s. 

Sam slaps it away, then smacks Dean’s dick too for good measure. “No. For now, you just get to watch.”

Dean accepts this meekly, although both his jaw and his fists clench with frustrated want. He doesn’t return his hand to his cock yet, probably concerned that he’ll come before he’s given permission. 

Sam doesn’t draw it out. He’s pent up too and Dean’s goddamned hot, especially when he’d doing penance like this and bending to Sam’s every whim. He likes seeing his brother desperate and spread out on the big table where generations of Men of Letters have done such serious work – or, fuck, for all he knows they played these same games too. Secret male societies have never been exactly known for keeping it clean and professional. 

Still looming over Dean, Sam rasps out a curse and grunts as he comes, jerking his dick hard and squeezing so that the spunk arcs out and rains all over Dean’s body. Hot splatters hit his cock and stomach and chest, even his neck and jaw. Dean just groans and bows his back a little, running his hands over himself on a slick slide and then grabbing at his own junk, Sam’s come shining slippery and obscene on his shaft.

Sam’s hand moves languidly over his dick as he watches his desecrated brother through half-lidded eyes for a moment. Then he folds his body even further over Dean, just very faintly brushing against him while his lips hover a breath away from Dean’s ear.

“Now you can come,” murmurs Sam.

The words have barely left Sam’s mouth before Dean surges up and muffles his sharp cry by clamping his teeth in Sam’s shirt and biting down, jizz pulsing thick and hot from his slit. He pumps several long shots over his torso, adding to the mess already there, and Sam knows for damned sure now that Dean’s not been taking adequate care of his own needs. Finally, spent and hardly able to draw breath, Dean slumps back against the table. His limbs are loose and splayed, and it might be the first time in months that he hasn’t been coiled tight with tension.

Sam knows the power he has over his big brother and he tries not to be a dick about it, but right now he hates Dean at least as much as he loves him and it’s _hard_ to be forgiving. But he hasn’t given an inch yet, not so much as a touch, and he really needs to offer Dean something. Not much – there’s no point in fooling either of them that they’re anywhere close to healing – but he can at least lay the foundations for building that bridge. Because one thing’s for sure: Dean’s already halfway across the river, waiting with open arms.

He pauses for a second, then rubs his cheek against Dean’s jaw with a rasp, finally pressing their mouths together. 

Dean makes a shocked and needy noise, then immediately groans and parts his plump lips, sounding more satisfied than when he came. 

Sam gently licks just inside Dean’s mouth, running the tip of his tongue over small, even teeth and Dean’s sensitive inner lip. Dean curls his clever tongue around Sam’s, slicking over it hot and slow, and Sam grunts at the sensation. He bites gently at Dean’s mouth, then presses closed lips against him one last time before retreating. 

Dean almost follows Sam’s lips but checks himself, letting his head thump back down to the table. His desire to keep kissing, his _want_ to be close is almost palpable, but he knows better than to push. This is already more than Sam’s been willing to share with him in a long time. 

Sam stands up and fastens his pants, regarding the mess that his brother’s in as Dean pushes up to rest on his elbows. He reaches down and lightly trails a finger through their combined spunk. He notices Dean’s eyes track the movement, so slowly extends his hand until it’s right in front of Dean’s face.

Dean locks his eyes on Sam’s, then leans forward and takes the digit into his mouth. He sucks it clean and then nips at the pad, making a soft noise that Sam identifies as lustful when he sees Dean’s cock twitch.

Dean lets Sam’s finger fall from his mouth with a quiet pop and then clears his throat a little awkwardly. He looks like he wants to say thank you, but knows that it would be weird.

So Sam gives him a little smile and says, “Guess we should get back to work.”

“Sure,” agrees Dean. He pauses. “I wasn’t really working.”

“I know.”

“But my head’s suddenly feeling a little clearer,” he says with a small and slightly embarrassed grin.

Sam thinks maybe his heart’s feeling a little lighter too, but he’s not going to destroy this fragile moment of peace they’ve found by mentioning it. So instead he nods and steps back to allow Dean to lever himself off the table.

“Good. Me too.”

 

 

THE END


End file.
